It was a proud and happy Jeanne who greeted her former mistress at the little cottage with the green blinds, and the ivy, which lay close upon the street of St. Genevieve,—­Jeanne, perhaps a trifle more fleshy, a shade more French and a touch less Parisian in look, more mature and maternal, yet after all, Jeanne, her former maid.  Woman fashion, these two now met, not without feminine tears, and forgetful of late difference in station, although Jeanne dutifully kissed the hand held out to her.  The first coherent speech, as in the case of Hector, was regarding this most extraordinary infant, whose arrival seemed to be thus far regarded as a matter of national importance.  In this view also shared Madame Fournier the elder, mother of Hector, who also presently welcomed the new-comer to the home.

[Illustration:  Woman fashion, these two now met.]

A strange feeling of relief, of rest and calm, came over Josephine St. Auban, a lady of rank in another world, where an incident such as this could not have been conceived.  Here it seemed not only possible but covetable.  The first babble of congratulations and greetings over, she settled down to the quiet of the room assigned to her, and gave a sigh as of one who at last finds harborage.  If only this might go on for ever!  If only the street might always be thus silent, the roof thus sheltering, the greetings of simple friends thus comforting!  She made no plans for herself, no announcement to others of possible plans.  It was enough to remain thus, for a night at least.  She was very weary, body and soul.  The pathetic droop at the corners of her brave gay mouth must have brought sympathy to any who had known her earlier.

“We are not rich, Madame Countess,” said Hector the next morning at the breakfast table, “but, my faith, it is not so bad here.  We have not much to offer Madame, but such as it is, it is quite hers.  With what riches could she produce a hen to lay eggs more perfect than those which madame beholds this morning?  They are the eggs of Mildred, our most special hen.  And this cream, it is from our cow Suzanne, whose like one does not find in any land for docility and amiability of disposition.  Our roof is small, but it is ours.  We have a yard so large as forty feet to the street yonder.  What more does one demand for flowers or for the onion with green top in the spring?  The couch of madame, was it not soft?  Yes?  It is from fowls of this very valley.  That scene from the window there, is it not beautiful?  Oh, very well!  Others may possess in greater abundance than we, but as for myself, my business of the cooperage prospers,—­behold my excellent wife Jeanne, yonder,—­and this daughter of ours!  What more could human being ask?”

Time and again, Josephine found herself repeating this same question,—­What more could be asked than this?  What more did the great world offer?  It had not offered her, long used to luxury, so much as this.  To Hector at this moment she made evasive answer.  “I could willingly tarry with you always, Hector,” said she, “if that were right.”